heart on your sleeve
by Nygmatech
Summary: They could have been happy, in other ages perhaps. ADGG, companion fic to "the games you play so well."


**A/N: Companion piece to _the games you play so well_, but can stand alone. Done for Hermione's Harmony's Miserable Melody competition.**

heart on your sleeve

And despite all your considerable mental prowess, all your acquired arrogance and carelessness and _power_—you cannot stop yourself from thinking, _this should have been you_.

There is magic here. In collects in the cold winter air that tears through your lungs with every breath, the chill that settles deep in your very bones and becomes an integral part of your being, in the snowflakes that collect on your skin and hair and yet on contact stay as frozen as they will ever be.

You have gotten used to the ice, to the cold, to the delicate little snowflakes that have gotten used to you. Perhaps they sense that you were once (_are still_) as fragile as them, or perhaps it is only that you once strived to be as cold, whichever may appease your mood today.

And all at once, it as if you are drowning. The snow in your hair melts and flattens the fine gold curls against your head, your cheeks are wet and your skin is uncomfortably warm where the water leaves trails, and in the next second you are completely dry.

You smile to yourself, perhaps, but the look in your eyes is plain curiosity and apprehension.

He has always been fire. The familiar magic burns your skin, carves the pain of your life into your soul, reminds you duly of what would later affectionately be referred to as "two months of insanity and cruel dreams." What a joke. It was not insanity, what you had, it was _realism_. You knew, even then, that the only way to get what you wanted was to give _him_ what _he_ wanted.

You wrote him his beautiful and terrible plans, once upon a summer forty-six years ago, and in return he promised _forever&always._

_(It should have been you. These were your ideals, your passions—but look! Look what I can do, all by myself, Albus, aren't you proud of me?)_

You look up. You draw into the battlefield, and the snow gathers on your eyelashes once again.

You want to speak. You want to say many things, but if you could not bear to say them the first time around, then what makes you think you _possibly_ could this time? You were always the realist. Reality comes naturally to you. Second chances never will.

You want to say something cliché, like _I'm sorry,_ or perhaps a little white lie called _I always loved you_.

You're not sorry, and you never loved him. Passion may be created in a summer, but love requires repetition.

(You would like to believe this, and perhaps now you do. It certainly hurts less.)

Fawkes trills something into your ear, and absently, you raise a hand to stroke his head, the feeling lost somewhere inbetween his feathers and your gloves.

"He reminds me of you," you say, finally, and it is true. The bird, too, is fire.

His eyes connect with yours, a bright, incandescent blue and just as striking as you last remember. His cheeks and the tip of his long, crooked nose are flushed pink in the cold. He has stopped curling his hair, you think detachedly, because it is these details that matter, that tell you that things are all wrong—it is supposed to be he who is standing here in your place, on top of the world and with as much power as he wishes.

You were always, were supposed to be, the one doubting him.

"A phoenix, Gellert? Really, I never knew you thought so highly of me."

You recoil, and it hurts all over again. Every word he said to you, every casual remark that put you and every single one of your opinions down, it comes back to you, now.

"I am not your toy, Albus. Not any longer."

"Is that all this is? Proving a point?"

Funny, you think, and the sneer almost makes it to your lips. _Very funny, Albus, you almost sound sad at the notion. Stop pretending this isn't everything you've ever dreamed of._

"Yes, Gellert, I most certainly _did_ take advantage of you, and for that I am sorry. But is it really worth this?"

_No_, is the quite easy response, and this time it _is_ funny because _look, Albus, what a hypocrite you're being! You took advantage of me for precisely that reason, why is it so hard to take blame for yourself?_

You cannot keep yourself from smiling at this, and shake your head no.

"I am only what you have made me."

(They are the truest words you have spoken in quite a long time.)

"Don't you see, Albus? I do this for you. This is what you would have been, in other ages perhaps. I do this for what we are and what we could have been; I do this for Ariana and give you your sweetest revenge."

"Do not bring Ariana into this."

Something passes between you, and your smile grows a little softer, because here is the Albus Dumbledore you might have known, once. You understand now, because you have never been one for avoiding the truth, and perhaps sometimes you forget that not all minds work like yours.

"Ah—so that is what this is about, then, Albus?"

He lies. You do not mind.

"No."

You humour him, then, because what else is there to do?

You shake your head once more. "I would have never come any closer to you. Britain is yours, Albus; I will not dare to take what is yours again. I would have been foolish, you know it is so."

There is a thoughtful pause.

"I killed Ariana."

Yes, is finally the answer. That is what this is all about. Taking what is his—and this is why his next words surprise you. You forget, sometimes, that you are wrong.

"No. I tried to kill _you_."

And finally, they are getting somewhere.

You are—intrigued. It was never you, you would have known, certainly. It was not the brother, he didn't know of such magic, and even then, you sometimes wonder with a tiny ping of guilt, _was I the one to end her life_?

What you would give, now that you know, to put yourself in his place. To know that you _are _the one responsible, to spare him that one bit of guilt. Perhaps this is why he changed.

"I forgive you," you say, quietly, and it feels utterly foreign, because it has been decades since you have done what is _right_ simply for the sake of doing so.

You take a half step forward, contemplate what is black and white and all the shades of gray inbetween—and throw away everything as you reach out towards him.

"Give me your hands, Albus."

He hesitates.

(Your heart breaks all over again.)


End file.
